


An End Continuous

by InvisibleArmour



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-04
Updated: 2013-06-04
Packaged: 2017-12-13 22:45:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/829739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InvisibleArmour/pseuds/InvisibleArmour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An Endverse fic</p>
            </blockquote>





	An End Continuous

A human woke to the sounds of hopelessness and the sluggish ticking of a cracked tin clock. Brother and Brother, fallen, icy, one broken and one free. The metallic taste of sorrow bit at the bloody sores on his chapped lips, and his pounding head was wet with darkened memories.

Three months had passed since the one-word ending, three months exceeding the finality and resounding with the sounds of fervent death. The first month had been made of saltwater, and he had slipped in it and fallen, cracked his head upon the cold pavement of existence. No grace, just soul, thickly coated in an artificial gloss that did little to cover up the greasy dust which gathered in every crevice of his dreams. His featherless back had ached with a heavy emptiness, and his eyes had drowned in warm and purple flesh. Arms had wrapped around him and he’d been made into a bridge – but the river running under had sprayed the beams with loss, and the wood had decayed and the boards had plummeted, splintered and afraid, into the writhing mud beneath his fragile hopes.

The arms had stayed around him but they’d been frightened by the earth, because it reminded them of school and dad and cage and hell and “yes.” So in the second month he too became arms, and arms held and wrapped around each other to ward off the impending loneliness, and it didn’t work because there was no cage, but at least the warmth restored some strength and lullabied the pain.

And then the second month was made of meat and it was necessary but inadvertent, lacking in the soft fondness of regard and fueled by coursing blood. The arms had wanted comfort and the heads had sought affection, but the beating hearts were broken and could only muster lust. And bodies rose and contagion spread until the gun supply ran low. People died but so did things, and chaos stained the air. So the arms held steel and were tense with rage so as to mask the leaking sorrow, and two humans loved but had lost the will and knew not how to feel.

The third month was made of small white capsules, and it tasted like hot blood. His face was sandpaper and the world was sweat, and everything was real, but how could real be defined in a world in which perception had been corrupted by persistence, and the fragile threads of company had been eroded by the filth? Except two lost brothers gleamed with stark peroxide and crisp glory, and the spiteful had the only cure to life. One empty capsule contained a day, and two deep and poignant voices, and it was full of glowing embers which shone but did not burn. The next contained two pairs of arms again, but these were threadbare and unclean and they now reeked of understanding. And then the hearts were there again, but there were other bodies too, and they felt cold and smelled of dried decay and bleak contamination.

So the other arms’ month was made of glass, and it was brown and wet and sticky. But Cas’s month was made of capsules, because perhaps they could encase the pain, and as he woke he swallowed three and sat amidst the turmoil, forgetting that a false escape dissolves more quickly than catastrophe.

And as the bruises on his back began to fade from blue to grey, passion withered and he embraced a life of heart and blood and placid loyalty. And hearts and arms were intertwined yet only grasped at emptiness, and he missed his broken brother and faded friend and the innocence of war.

So as time went on the pills increased and the death count grew only larger, as if competing with the fallen angel’s own encumbered high. The days limped by and a universe crumbled, but the world just would not end, and he followed like a soldier through the trenches of the Aftermath, and was thus enslaved wholly by his only surplus freedom.

And the arms and heart and head and soul were chained and dragged behind him, and he had placed them into individual capsules carefully.

While Dean drunk to live, Cas longed to die, and thus he smiled more each day. And the arms still grasped and clung and held but through their muscles they were weak, and every day they were enveloped by the spill of nothing left.

Cas had hoped he’d volunteer and his life would be his death, and that his warmth could overcome the clarity with which the world was run. And every day the human woke and downed another pill, praying to an absent father but thinking of two brothers, and the world was shit and the ground was hard and the future wasn’t there;

and there is no happy ending here because the End had just begun.


End file.
